


Oceans

by Aimryax



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Backstory, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relationship is not the main focus, Religious Conflict, Sexual Themes, Trans!Soap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 09:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19809112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimryax/pseuds/Aimryax
Summary: The path of becoming a living weapon was never an easy one.Well, how could it ever be? Of all people, it was once an innocent with a heart to feel.//Oceans - Seafret





	Oceans

**Author's Note:**

> _20:14 Fresh Dumbledore: nikolai: ok be gentle with that injection bro_  
>  yuri, who only knows "gentle" means having all your teeth still in place after a prison fight: ok 
> 
> **UPDATE 22 March 2020:** I wanted to revisit this since I was highly unsatisfied with a lot of it and some parts weren’t written good so Oceans two!!
> 
> More sections were added/heavily modified for more realism/logic, for anyone who never read this, it’s a heavily HC-ed backstory.
> 
> Once again, big MAJOR thanks to @llanxeotis with keeping up with me and an extra thanks to @CelestialFox with the Religious stuff!
> 
> ///If anyone wants to skip over the Assault part, it’s third section.

“ _Yuri!_ ”

The familiar voice, which was often soft as it would coo at him when he used to be a little younger, was now stern and angry, very much directed at him.

The fault comes from his side, he should’ve thought of something more plausible instead of the lame, obvious, untrue excuse of falling off a bicycle.

It was worth an attempt.

“Look at yourself! What did you get into this time?” She proceeded to scold him further, often gentle face turned angry with lines between her furrowed eyebrows, not paying attention to her words much.

What accompanied a harsh tone was an even harsher set of hands grabbing ahold of his round face; inspecting it further to see the damage.

Yuri could only feel. He didn’t get the chance to look in the mirror; but he knows that his left eye was heavily bruised from the pain, his nose was definitely not in its right place and he could still taste the iron flavour of blood from his split lip, some of it still undried.

That was merely the visible part of his body, the carefully hidden ones with long clothes were another story that would've made his мама scream.

Completely zoning out, his only proper focus was on how her rather untied hair moved with each movement, light brown hair with grey eyes widened in concern mixed with anger and protectiveness.

She’ll hug him after this, she always did.

 _мама_ warned him more times than he could count, with tones ranging from gentle to harsh, expressions from wisdom to anger, even as going as far to run barefoot on the streets on several occasions to interrupt Yuri from getting into a fight. 

Scraped knees turned into broken bones, from a simple scratch turned into heavy bruises both inside and out, his shenanigans progressed into major problems; Yuri held them with pride while she heavily objected, even when not knowing the extremely dangerous close calls of a knife, merely leaving an easily healed scar.

As he predicated, the scoff came with a head shake before he was taken into the warm embrace, wincing slightly at his untreated wounds but comforted by the softest murmurs of his _мама_.

She wasn’t at home a lot, but the time they had together was precious to him.

Fighting was his nature, he did not do it to get the attention of his parents as they thought. His love for them was preserved safely somewhere else and safe away from his violent life.

He just hoped that whatever he takes after his _мама_ , was not her persistent nagging.

At a certain point, bandages never left his body, shorts and half sleeved outfits often showing them more with colour peeking on the pale skin, of blues and reds.

He still winced after his wounds had been cleaned up as his body recoiled on the touch of a surface, even if it was the soft texture of his bed, but the hair ruffle and kiss to the forehead made Yuri forget the pain a bit, even if it was after a very long unnecessary talk.

It became a routine, a talk with him and then talk to his папа.

Same exact exchange of words, word by word, letter by letter, tone by tone. Yuri didn’t feel like getting up to focus on the muffled dialogue nearby his room.

On how he was too young, too reckless, too childish to understand.

A child wouldn’t know when to engage and when to disengage, Yuri was not as reckless as he was spoken of; not even eighteen but could face those who were older, he'd thought of all the times he did achieve victory in proving his worth, he was not a weakling—

“ _Ow._ ”

With a bit of consequences to balance it out; it seems.

* * *

“ _Yuri _.”__

__Cold and scary; stranger’s voice that echoed through the murmurs to silence, emotionless voice directed at him in confrontation._ _

__Losing the track of the days of being dragged up and down like a thing rather than a human, even with years of being on the streets, the rough treatment scared him._ _

__From the drop of a pin to his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears; Yuri can hear every single _thing_ around him, almost hyper vigilance. Handcuffs made metallic noises from the shaking hands so much in the large courtroom._ _

__The only thing that managed to keep him standing up and not collapse right here and there, was the advice of his lawyer, not dignity._ _

__Lights felt harsh on grey eyes that saw darkness in the temporary cells away from anything that was not a dim light. It forced his eyes to be held wide open; too afraid—terrified to even blink, for one single error will determine his fate if he was lucky to even live._ _

__Power difference was all around him, the highest of all judges right high up in front of Yuri, with two by his side that could end him if he stepped out of line. With him being the bottom of it all, a criminal, just filth among them._ _

__Eyes from all different of higher levels of power looked down on him from above, varying from disgust to pity._ _

__His mind stole him from the harsh judgement for a moment, re-encountering the scene all over again as if it just happened yesterday, not weeks and weeks ago. Metallic knife that was handled with ease felt so heavy and disgusting; with them trembling from the sickly warm sensation of blood seeping from his fingers._ _

__Where a lifeless body laid right beneath him, eyes that were just furious turned into shock, then nothing so fast._ _

__Right in that moment, Yuri didn’t feel like a man, but a wrongly bloodied young boy in front of sirens alone._ _

__In the midst of the murmurs, the memories, the objections, the judge’s voice—in the middle of it all; Yuri was just a vulnerable boy who just wanted to run into his _мама’s_ embrace to protect him from this nightmare._ _

__From afar, she looked like she wanted to do the very same thing._ _

__Cruelty was the words thrown at him by the opposing lawyer, of lies and wrong accusations towards a child for a man’s mistake. Inhumanity was being faced right front of the mourning family, a fatherless child comforted in arms of black clothing._ _

__Black clothing belonged to the new widow, where her eyes burnt him where he was standing, as words of accusations turned into facts or overrule anything._ _

__Wanting to reach out with his confined hands, wanting to plead innocence that the knife was not his, that was no intention and that the fault of an adult should not come at the cost of the fault of a child._ _

__“ _This man. This murderer. This monster_.”_ _

__What was louder? was it the denial of struggling violently against his escort at the sound of a sentence, maximum years to a minor enforced upon him. Or the broken crying of a voice that instead of comforting him to bed._ _

__All he knows is; it’ll haunt him till the day he stands infront of his maker with a shamefully bowed head._ _

____

* * *

“ _Yuri..._ ”

Stranger, and unsafe; long drag of his name the first time said outside his own head, it was looming, tall and with unsettling intentions, an _invader_.

It fired every single siren in Yuri’s body.

New to the prison, but not new to fights. Instincts worked faster than his senses; aura of a larger frame, bulkier, stronger— _larger_ , bulkier and stronger than him, his mind reporting that if a fight happened, Yuri will lose even with a struggle.

Cornered, Yuri begged internally for something to hear his inner pleas that he would be left alone.

Forcing his legs to turn around in response, eyes looked up widened in high alert, a guard with the most disgusting look Yuri have ever seen, confirming all his possible fears. Only having his stance as a shield; a stoic face that was put weakly yet carefully since the day he stopped mourning so loudly for his home.

Bigger frame leaned in, getting closer, causing Yuri’s body to scream its loudest at him to scramble. Fingers twitching unconsciously at hard wall in desperation to get out with legs scraping at the floor in no avail as he was completely overwhelmed.

Whispers on details of his smaller body, an underlying threat if refused to do what was asked or screamed out, _raw_ breaths in his ear that sent his body into shivered coldness of horror and disgust.

It took every will of his living body to try and stand at least bearable and not give in to show signs of the fear of the power difference, starting from the age to the uniform of a guard and a prisoner. If that hand came just a bit closer, it would feel the inner trembling of his body.

Maybe giving it a push it needs to just tear the cloth off him.

Someone, something, anything out of this. Yuri’s mind raced faster as the breath near his neck was wet for a second, making him jump and recoil further in his own skin no matter how hard he tried to conceal it.

 _Think fast think fast think fast think fast_ —

Inhale, even if it was shaking; it was his resort, last and only.

“It’s true, you will get...what you want with me.” Voice wavering, almost wanting to throw up at merely saying these words. “Nobody will hear me, nobody would come and I can’t snitch.”

Even if the change of the guard’s face turning to bewilderment at Yuri seemingly willing submission, it didn’t change the outcome yet.

Yuri continued, “but you know the risks, others wouldn’t be so...forgetting, or forgiving.”

It was a fact he overheard during his first days, saw it sometimes. Finding out something lower than snitches, and it was people who violated children; a living hell on earth coming back at them for their offences.

Eyes looking at him, pondering on the words, thinking if the risk was really worth it and Yuri kept praying to any god that would hear him out here that it was not, holding back tears at the eyes that looked too much into his frame multiple times.

Seconds, minutes—it felt like hours of barely composed breathing and painful numbness did the answer come, he was not worth it.

A simple hum as if it was a normal decision did the guard finally walk away, resuming his job, hearing heavy footsteps slowly fading out of his hearing along other noises.

Numbness started to fade away, the rush of fear mixed with adrenaline coming down; causing every single sensation to fall on him instantly, thoughts and realisations hit but hyper sensitivity hit harder.

Body slid down the wall onto the ground with noise, leaving Yuri with trembling lips and eyes letting the tears run burning. In a dark, cold corner, he held his legs to himself, trying to make himself as safe as possible from what has become of his world.

Fragile, weak, small, breakable. It all left him with nothing but shame.

What is he going to do? Tears ran hot down his face as hands finally gripped his neck, rubbing the rough cloth of prison into flesh again and again until it hurt to touch, but not removing the lingering sensation that made him want to claw it out.

All he could do is cry as quietly as possible to not bother the other inmates.

* * *

“ _Yuri!—_ “

Almost familiar; but a hiss nonetheless, often professional but not at the moment. Yuri would have hissed back if it wasn’t for him being at fault.

Time passed, he forgot to mark the calendar often.

Adaption was necessary, where there was rules; there was culture, there was accommodating to specific things in order to live with the least amount of bruises.

Nothing comes instantly, Yuri was smart enough to not race to the top, learn first to overcome the teacher later. It still didn’t erase the fact what passed of the time was time of detailed agony for the too _young_ prisoner.

He was surprised at the truth of the stories he had heard, religion was a big factor indeed. Where symbols and tattoos of multiple faiths were a live, walking dossier of the inmate.

Praying was all they had after all, staring at the multiple crosses on neck, wrist or skin. It was all he had when he was thrown into solitary; his mind involuntary breaking at the utter silence of non-repeating echo, the highlighted white cross on his finger vouched for the memory.

Grey eyes often looked sombrely at the symbols, his heart missing the comfort of the crafted beauty of church glasses and tall walls, yearning for the bells that rang in a divine melody.

It was just him in the empty cells and corridors with the trusted providence.

Virgin Mary, and the miracle child, from expensive, often new paintings and glasses, to a worn-out paper of dullness. It felt vastly different this way, feeling that his faith also changed with his state, going wherever he went, even if on such a unfavourable _thing_.

There were other symbols than religion, ones that spoke of life, personality, experiences, status and beliefs. Where one earns his place through them, or gets beaten six feet underground alive.

It was akin to being on the top of the food chain to being the lowest.

Knowing on what they mean, on what was needed to be earned, or what had been done pre-prison, how to get it and how to prove it without saying too much, maybe needing some physical or emotional sacrifices.

Out of morbid curiosity as the artist set up the improvised gear, Yuri asked him what happens to those who lie about the ink. The answer was shrug as he explained how they’re given a needle, sandpaper and a shard of glass to solve it in a couple of days.

He didn’t feel like asking anymore.

Yuri learned until he became one of the crowd, not with the flow yet, but he’s getting there.

Not the first one, arm tattoos are easier than finger ones; but it never made the process any easier. The buzzing snapped Yuri out of his thoughts to the arm laying down on a table as the artist continued, occasionally warning him of making too much sound. 

Neither of them were big fans of solitary confinement.

Fingers twitched involuntarily from the pain as the needle went in its automatic path of going in and out of skin, piercing the carefully drawn cloth of holiness on his forearm. It hurt, not the pain of a beating or a stab, but pain regardless, leaving him in discomfort.

Whenever it got too much to stay silent, Yuri bit his hand, sometimes re-opening previous bites from older—but equally painful sessions, tasting the fresh iron on his tongue, most importantly he steered away from biting the ink.

Occasional glances at the blur of the machine before resuming to other meaningless thoughts, on the older—but not old tattoos that were still in their healing stage, if Yuri can play his cards right, painkillers would help.

Improvising was needed more regardless, handle more pain means less requirements for medical, and more for other things.

The rather cut-and-stitched pillow had gotten him through sometimes, it resembled a little bit of both of their embrace, it reminded him how unlike others, still retained the luxury of feeling some things. Even if they were to be gone later.

Yuri was alive, barely. But _alive_.

Becoming more evident; the ink was being drawn to resemble the holy woman carrying the messiah, another symbol.

Criminal lifestyle since _youth_.

* * *

“ _Yuri, eh?_ ”

Familiar, rather unwelcome though; the way it said too casually, too comfortably made Yuri raise his eyebrows towards the source.

Not turning his head, eyes looked from the corner as his hand stopping the wrapping of the bandage around the other one, purposely making sure that the speaker knew they crossed a line.

Relocated wrong, maybe it needs a better look, he’ll ask the doctor.

At the unease glance, the speaker instantly raised his hands in pseudo surrender while smiling sheepishly.

“ _Woah there_ , I don’t mean anything.”

With the every so slightly tremble of genuine fear in that tone, Yuri knew that the message was received.

Somebody, Yuri thinks the name was Max or something similar. Like others, Max stood out merely because of his connections; like the discreet towel that he was being handed to right now, a simple deal, Yuri won’t come to or allow—if within capability—any harm to him.

In return, anything he asks for is often received.

Standing higher than others on the pile of beaten people, the bodies that were discarded by bloodied fists; had earned Yuri a place for himself among the higher parts.

With preserved feelings, empathy, pity, had made Yuri have a hard time with turning defence into offence, but the familiar rhythm of fighting was not difficult. Only with a fewer strict rules and harsher consequences, an eye for any eye to dog eats dog.

He tried to ignore the verses that spoke of his actions, ones that kept him awake in guilt, trying to justify it with a world changing, he was spared a lot of times despite it.

On the transportation to play with the big boys, growing up from a young age had given Yuri the advantages of a two sided knife; either berated for his lack of experience, where the term “boy” was still thrown by guards or dangerous inmates. Or complimented at showing talent and easily earned skills since young age.

But an easy target was something Yuri will refuse to be, not _again_ that is.

However, he was not without morals, perhaps having a less harsher side to people who knows were plagued by similar nightmares as they were already in pain, shamefully might protect them with no return.

Striving on the pain of others were far from his nature, only to reach a current goal and nothing else, having no feeling of will with it.

As he took the towel nonchalantly, making Max flinch a bit; he took pride in seeing that despite the large age difference, Yuri had almost the equal amount of tattoos, making the older inmate become friendlier.

Temporary relationship that relied on both of their worth, but the less trouble for Yuri to watch out, having more cover to his back, the better.

Using his healthier hand, Yuri started to wipe off his face from the dust and sweat; and the blood spatters that came into contact with his cheek.

Upon feeling a little bit of remorse, Yuri’s mind repeated the motto. It had to be done.

It didn’t matter if he or the other inmate was the one who started the engagement. It was irrelevant, as a tone and a few words had caused a unified silence, making it hard to slide without causing a hit to his own reputation.

What mattered was what gotten him to fall flat faced on the ground full of dust, still saving room for mercy and not clearing it out, leaving his back exposed to the inmate who begged for breath a few minutes ago, realising the mistake of it as he felt a kick connecting to his back.

From the critical hit at his dignity, from the haunting trauma, from the pent up unexpressed emotions; Yuri let something _snap_ inside, driven on pure blinding anger like a wild animal finally biting the poking stick.

Compared to the other man, he almost had no injured. A few scrapes from the ground here and there, slightly stinging, a cut near his mouth and a loss of a hand made razor.

From a guard’s perspective, Yuri had no connections. Having a razor hidden in a mouth was often a rookie mistakes, a single punch is already a guarantee for disaster.

From his own and the bystanders who wouldn’t dare to speak out, it was very different.

It happened quite fast, an inked thumb shoved to forcefully open a mouth and the other feeling the sharp edges of metal, all he remembers afterwards are screams of immense pain and a bloody scene on the ground.

He will live, but with every breath he’ll remember this moment from a scarred throat, remember Yuri. The used to be nameless boy turned into a loud-spoken name to be feared.

The ink on his chest was true to _every pin of it_.

* * *

“ _—Yuri._ ”

Familiar, _disgustingly_ familiar; from the memories and dreams of shivers going up his neck. But not looming, not above, but beneath and muffled.

Not caring about the consequences of those actions, not having a thought in mind, he let his leg swing to connect to an already bruised skull, ending the call of his name in a breathless wheeze.

Circle around the grand show of the beating, simple observers from afar who didn’t intervene, in fear of being involved, but also the fear of being in the way of the silent wrath, just watching the utter humiliation.

Loud and bold person meant easy predictions, coldness of grey eyes and stoic unreadable face were more dangerous than any word on the tongue. So Yuri was left to his prey.

Realising that he had not seen the face in a while, Yuri flipped the heavy frame using his leg in distaste of touching it with his skin. Turning the ex-guard from laying and coughing, to chocking on his own blood on his back.

Deep down inside, despite being surprised at the twisted events, Yuri knew that he was not left alone, that the guard will receive the results of his wrongdoings one day. And it was seen fit to be stripped from the badge and dressed in the cheap clothes of a prisoner.

Knowing that he was admitted only a few weeks ago, Yuri was surprised to learn it was for another offence rather than what he almost did, more of corruption than _violation_.

It gave Yuri complicated feelings, knowing that no person was caught under that frame in a dreaded corner, but also knowing that he won’t get the treatment of committing such.

God gave him a head start of having that monster within reach, and he’ll gladly finish it.

It didn’t make it any easier though; he had room to become desensitised, constant exposure over and over until the feeling was simple numbness of everyday. But the resurface of a memory in such a realistic manner had shaken him.

Stricken with terror, haunting words and actions, it never left him at peace since the first look of that _face_ that failed to recognise the older boy.

Logically; with such vivid memories, his footsteps should be louder, angrier, faster. But his legs walked up calmly as ever, with no shaking nerves even as he was a few centimetres away from him in the food line.

Almost in a monotonic manner, arms rose up with the tray in hands. Almost if on queue, the frame turned around in concern just as plastic made very loud noise upon impact, alerting every single person in the lunch break.

With the element of surprise and agility of a much healthier body, the ex-guard was incapacitated in mere seconds. The second the body met the ground Yuri did not waste a moment in beating every inch of him.

Echoes of cracks and screaming felt melodic.

Torn cloth, broken bones, purples, reds and blues becoming spread more than the skin itself. Yuri was not given mercy under that smug face, so he will return the favour; no matter how it changed through the dragging and scarping.

Throat even choked further as Yuri put his foot on it, staring at the frame in a way of recalling, admiring the fact that a simple push—just a _twist_ is all it would take to end it just right here and there, maybe the consequences would be worth it, maybe not.

Pressing more on the throat to cause more pain, restricting limited breath, corners of a mouth being a sight of disgrace, blood mixed with all of bile, saliva and snot. It was a demeaning sight to be in.

Parallels, a blooded body underneath him and feeling so wronged and abused. But here, there was still breaths of struggling, here he was the executor to the only merciful judger above anything.

Bare blood soaked hands, the feeling of scratches of trauma tormenting him. Such things should make his eyes show a hysterical emotion, let it be madness, euphoria or depression.

As much as it complicated him, the hardening of a heart gave no feeling, either satisfactory or not. Grey eyes looked as emotionless as ever, knowing these wide eyes were asking why was this happening.

 _He’ll know_. Leaning down on a bent knee, forcing more pressure on a fragile neck caused hiccups to come out; face to face again but with a grim reminder on who was in control.

Upon the eyes that went wider upon recognition, with one of them looking blind, Yuri sneered in the way he exactly wanted to.

“ _Remember me?_ ”

* * *

“ _Ah, Yuri._ ”

Stranger, not unwelcome; but a little bit condescending, despite stating a mere confirmation upon seeing files to go and search for the old box.

Every prisoner’s fantasy was the moment he was living right now. The grand moment of release, of walking out of the confining bars and prison life.

It did not feel as such.

Immediately at changing the clothes that was stuck on him for years, Yuri felt out of place; as if he was supposed to remain in there until he was buried alongside the sentenced.

It should be fitting, seeing on how he strayed too far from the right path trying to belong, his wounds often staining holy pages on opening from time to time.

Fate had other plans, when he was brought up again on the familiar ground without the feeling of fear. Not trembling, just standing up in front of the judge as he spoke, feeling mildly annoyed more than anything.

Proven to be unintentional from a revisit after constant pressure—and perhaps pity from the older widow—grey eyes widened a bit upon learning that the week he will spend was going to be the final week in prison, as it will have completed the seven years of the reduced sentence.

That last week, Yuri sat on his bed silent as always. People approached him less on finally hearing the rumours of his sentence, those who did expressed their happiness, jealously or pity.

Yuri could not care less for any opinion, only taking time to reflect on things he hadn’t thought of, as he had abandoned the idea of a future a long time ago.

The world didn’t stop with him, but went on and on. There was a different society out there, a different world he had grown far from it, almost isolating himself from any mention; and he was about to face it unprepared, exactly how he was shoved into a different world seven years ago.

Going from being the top of the food chain, to beyond the lowest, just from walking out that door.

Weight of a pen felt unfamiliar in his fingers, taking a second to remember his name beyond the first one as he signed the needed papers, memories he didn’t think he wanted.

“You’re lucky,” the guard waiting for Yuri to finish stated very much unnecessarily “not everyone has the privilege of having their time reduced like that.” eyebrows shot up in a seemingly questioning matter. Provocation, a bait to get him to say something out of line, a hook.

Tempting, but Yuri stayed silent.

Stepping out of the gates that were renewed with time, everything hit him fast and suddenly; fresh air on his face, feeling that it was pushing him away, pushing him back. Even with the clouds with promise of rain, the light was real, not artificial, even with the raindrops started to fall and touch his body, the strange sensation startled his defences.

 _An unfortunate habit_.

What remained of his emotions felt more driven by deep embedded teachings rather than actual ones; where he learnt how to seek—to tear every fibre of emotion that can act as obstacles until there was none. 

Anger, confidence and loyalty could serve as an advantage sometimes. So he let them stay.

As feet took steps on a path that a hazy memory tried to recall, feeling hesitant as the streets were unknown to his mind, he recalled his destination. Yuri had not thought of his... _мать_ and _отец_ in a very long time. 

Drifting to the last time he had seen their faces, where it would usually end in tears from him, or them. 

Brown hair turning grey, grey eyes that had eye bags alongside blue ones that were filled with sorrow, wishes of growing up beside them were gone.

Final time he had seen them was during one of his early birthdays, where the conversation got heated up, where Yuri was reminded how this is his fault with underlying meanings.

Wincing at the painful memory when the family locket was thrown in pained frustration towards him, seeing the item recoil to hit the ground on the visitor’s side before they both left.

In between tears that _used to_ come to his eyes, Yuri was handed the locket with pitying eyes from the watching guard.

Taking the locket and wearing it around his neck while hating how his body remained shivering with hiccups, he had decided the photo within the locket was sufficient enough to silence the ache for his parents.

Since then, he had refused every visit. Even if they continued no matter how many times they were rejected, until they stopped.

Standing in front of the house that was his first home. It had changed drastically, maybe to erase the imprint of a too rebellious boy who had met a sad end, regardless, he’ll find out when he faces them.

Upon closer inspection, that the house was unattended, left behind for some time, he went up to someone around the neighbourhood, inquiring on the house.

 _My condolences_ ; they had passed away two years ago.

It hurt, but the locket is sufficient without the memories, it’s what he taught himself.

* * *

“ _..._ ”

Close and familiar; even the breath itself had the hint of the nasally voice, hearing it a lot to the point Yuri can recognise it anywhere.

Warehouses did not provide the best of lightning when they age, giving barely enough light to see, where shadows were spread and casted on everything. But he still saw the movement of Vladimir’s head, to finish _it_.

Inked hands itched from the barbered wires he had to tighten around the traitor’s body, making sure it sank in thin flesh—but not vital parts, no matter how he moved. Practiced acts.

Smell of previous decay and infection were all around, leaving the discarded scarf only the small escape from the stench, he can’t wait until he wears it again.

Double agent, caught on by a feeling from Yuri, and a confirmation from Vladimir, immediately taking action of forcing every single information out. But even so, Vladimir had deemed him unworthy of breathing.

Medical equipment in non-surgeon’s hands and some engineering ones as well make a good truth serum, with gloves helping to separate blood from flesh. 

It made the process of removing the heavy weight easier, at least _that_ type of weight.

Days and days of being a stray in the streets, no money, no home, no use. Where Yuri was sent into incarceration for being a pariah; and then outcasted for being an exile, with nowhere to go and a record to be looked down upon.

Yuri applied to the only thing he had ever known to do.

The military needed as many people as it can get during times of conflict. He was still considered a young man with an unfavourable record, but nonetheless, a few questions and interrogations to see if he was sane and he was fit for service.

Interest was taken in Yuri by someone, occasional different coloured eyes glinted at him precisely from all other soldiers, picking him out later to accompany him more often until the spetsnaz uniform was finally discarded.

Figures his state of unblinking and emotionless face, someone would notice the outcast.

Vladimir Makarov, the first friend for Yuri to have.

The feeling appeared to be mutual, where Vladimir referred to Yuri as his friend verbally in both languages, and Yuri did the same. From shared ideals and purposes from afar, to cold drinks and sombreness in a bar with open feelings.

Not close enough to share the shame of his past—a dead one, but close enough to show weakness and doubts that lingered in seemingly strong men.

When not a friend, Yuri was a right hand, following the owner without a second thought, obeying upon mere thought—not command; having a place higher than nothing where someone treated him at least equally.

Working and repaying, Yuri stood as a shield, where every person had their enemies, especially a notorious one like Vladimir, not repeating the mistakes of history from the deceased mentor.

That’s what Yuri always exceeded in.

Throwing out the gloves with his thoughts, a hidden inked arm reached for the warmly stealth gun in his coat, fingers feeling right home at the metallic feeling. The trigger was found very easily where his arm pointed so lightly over the back-stabber.

A brief flash of forced tattoos came to mind in Cyrillic.

Click, turning off the safety of the gun, had made the figure look up at the gun on his forehead, eyes barely alive.

Even at the face of death, a weak smile was shown, a relieved one. The smile of being so much in suffering that death was the rescue that was needed, leaving anything that might come back for later.

 _Bang_ ; and Yuri assumed the role of the taker.

Silence of the kill left him sometimes uncomfortable, unbearable. Making him take the scarf quicker, wrapping it around his face and readjusting it, hiding the tattooed stripes of his sentence.

Just right on Vladimir’s heels, Yuri walked until he was right next to his friend, stepping outside to met the brightness of the snow, leaving the lower guards to take care of the mess.

Snow under expensive boots, tight coats with tighter vest underneath, a drastic change from the military. It gave doubts, where sometimes Yuri felt that was something delving into beyond patriotism and ideals, something beyond defending a country.

Morally grey was something not unfamiliar, as every relationship with him was always so; from the cross to the methods of defence. But some reports gave him unease, glancing at the person responsible for them.

Two eyes met for a bit, holding contact before huffing out a chuckle in old familiarity of a strong bonded friendship, they were a good duo with no question.

Vladimir was smart, but there was a hint of darkness that sept in his friend, something unknown that Yuri feared of being a stranger to it, where he can’t resolve or follow.

Yuri was aware that he needed somewhere to think, with a separate mind and faith in account.

And this was not the place.

* * *

“ _...Yuri?_ ”

Almost familiar; not of a friend or a foe, but simply a voice of business in a similar professional ask, nothing more or less.

Raising his head from leaning on his hand to face the voice to see the what was the issue. Having had multiple tattoos from the most painful places to the least, this was an easy task—let alone that he had gotten at least half of them in worst case scenario.

Instead of bare hands with a barely held together machine, here he felt the touch of the glove on his upper arm, alongside the most precise and cleanest of needles, drastic comparison.

He had a lot of money outside work, he can spend it however he wants.

Some were considerably recent, like the seven stripes that receded on his face and neck, the _fleur de lis_ tying the pair of two wings even more with the strings securing it. Some were coverups of older ones, of flowers covering the throne wires.

Often coloured by the default black, Yuri chose this one to be coloured specifically of white, orange and purple ink, more expensive but, more worth.

What they all shared that not a single line done on his body was made out of a whim, but something deeper than flesh.

 _Sacrum_ was the closest thing he can get, unclear memories of the rows, glasses and bells were becoming too far of reach, where the bible just couldn’t cut it.

What he had left; both in prison and belief, was the skin of his body, most important thing he had. Devoting all of it away from inner meanings of a culture, having more crosses than needed on the hand that carries out actions, having one right underneath his most vulnerable neck.

Back to where he was, Yuri faced the artist on his side.

“Hm?” Grey eyes looking in half-lidded carelessness, already interrupted from the day dreaming. The artist he chose was good in his work, despite not being Russian, alongside the fact he never had any comments to give or poking around on the older tattoos, not too chatty as well.

Money well spent.

“I was just asking, I see some of your tattoos are dulled, would you like me to revise them?”

Just at the mention of the specifically dulled tattoos, a memory came in a split second— _exactly how it happened_. Orange, then yellow, then white light with an intense shockwave almost blinding from the farthest of distances; taking thousands of souls in his vision, ears ringing at the reaction.

Right next to his right, a man gone mad grimly stood in sadistic nature at the horrific scene.

And then it was gone.

“нет—I mean no. No it is fine.” Language slip, Yuri should practice better at repressing that specific memory.

It was what brought him here in the first place, when the line between reality and illusion felt so thin, where the scene couldn’t be left alongside many things that were taken without his opinion.

Leaving him with only one thing, to go back in time, to revisit what was stored in that locket.

String of simple material, discarding everything yet if that string was snapped, Yuri knows that he would be not so much different than the dead, even worse where there was no room for redemption if he stood in front of judgement.

Revisiting his first and second home, revisiting the surprisingly remaining church of his hometown despite never entering it; always stepping back once his eyes catch the cleaner and honourable crosses on the outer walls in contrast to his disgraced ones.

Never failed to make him back up and turn back.

Doubts and uncertainties wrapped around his mind, ceasing it to function like it should, leaving his heart to judge.

As grey eyes looked dark with conflict of months that left its owner sleepless, the artist kept going with the work, only occasional harder pins and pats if alcohol that stood out to the busy mind.

Yuri doesn’t need to look at the new designs, she always bought them whenever possible, two primary colours bright among the smaller whites, they were almost a part of her as they fit her softness.

It gave him two feelings, one of nostalgia at the fond childhood memory, and one of discomfort at the hypocrisy of himself; wishing for peace with blood coating his hands.

One day he’ll be forced to look at every life he had taken, or watched when he had the ability, to have every breath judged when he committed the sin of taking the role of death.

Guilt of injuring, guilt of distance, guilt of killing.

What would his parents say right now?

The orphan yearned for an answer more often than he should have.

* * *

“ _...Yuri._ ”

Warm of distance; causality that came from afar intimacy of simple words, still remembering how it echoed in his ear even after hours of laying restless in his booked room.

Work was a routine Yuri endorsed himself into so deeply, not out of dedication, but out of pure habit. With Vladimir sometimes joking on how Yuri would actually become _tired_ if he ever stopped being unnerving.

Regardless, he hanged out whenever he felt like doing such. Often with his friend with a linked arm, loud noises from nightclubs to calmness of more classical bars, luxurious pleasures.

With men who looked like them, tall and odd, company was almost a guarantee, looking dark and expensive was an _eye-candy_ for many, and Yuri was not without a mirror to know how the ink made him an object of high interest.

Often sitting alone to drink as minimum as he can for his unacceptable low tolerance, he was always approached by someone, often women trying to spark up a conversation or get close to him.

Back then, he would accept these invitations with open arms, while desire was a factor, desperation also manifested; where he tried to drown out the need of unwanted feelings with ones he should only have, where by time it felt more and more worse, until he rejected anything altogether.

They were not to blame, always upset whenever he turned down the offers to their rooms, but they left indeed. Knowing that he was trying to make them as replacements with the lack of unspoken boundaries were too much to handle anymore.

Too much from bleeding neck from his own nails and unwilling tears.

Heavy sigh sounded as he remembered how much years it took for him to stop attempting, stop grasping for solutions for an unsolved issue, covering him eyes with his forearm in exhausted mortification.

Revisiting the past meant every single part of it, even this.

Wondering aimlessly away from Vladimir in the loud, colourful lights, sitting away in the fantasy of the side of the city that appears after midnight.

People came and go, women and men alike, but the latter was less. Nonetheless, introductions, more words, pretty pointless chatter until he heard his rarely said name in that tone in a deep voice, sending something.

It was nothing to the other man, a practiced flirtatious tone probably to get someone to think about him for a while; but Yuri did not receive it as such when the barriers locked to let trauma and speeches collide.

Fever had left him distressed, even with the unbuttoned shirt, Yuri could swear he can feel the coldness of the locket moving on his chest with how hard his heart pounded.

All attire always included a scarf, or hiding this specific part; always serving as an emotional wall instead of a simple article of cloth. Burdened heart with the chains of verses spoken since he was young, not paying attention until he was what was warned of.

Sin after sin, even if he was an avid one, the fact itself never eased what felt like an unmoving mass on his chest. Fingers with pinned crosses touched an inked chest lightly, trying to feel it.

Grey eyes closed with furrowed eyebrows at remembering the other aspect that affected him to the core, remembering the cells that couldn’t be silenced by the walls that allowed the sounds of wailing; let it be the biggest of men to the weakest of boys. Always reaching him even with hands on his ears. 

Something wrong, revolting, sick. What he always heard and saw of it, nothing of it was gentle or had genuine emotions, substations or act of violence, that’s what he heard, what was he made to feel.

Trailing from the middle, to the line of hardened body with training and history, lingering right with an index finger touching metallic of his belt, feeling ice touch on igniting skin.

Touches felt nice, they felt _good_ with that imagery in mind, but some of them were told to be forbidden, of hands that could be a bit more rougher, bolder, bigger, different ones of a woman, a suppose default.

Tired of being told what to do with his heart, what to feel of his emotions, what to have with his faith, Yuri just wanted to not have complexities that his logic knew they were nonsense by people who never feared god as much as he did.

It was not easy, entanglements needed time, patience and acceptance, clenching and recoiling his hand in stress before covering his eyes with both hands, instinctive reaction.

Compulsively, Yuri knew that, making an effort to be something he wasn’t, and by the necklace he held dear he was so tired of it. Numbness overcame after the rush wave of heat, moving his body to the side to hold himself.

It was a start nonetheless, taking comfort in what he could be if he wanted, without fighting with a start and an end, ones he wasn’t ordered to do.

Slow steps, not an avid sinner, if he was—it was anything but _this_. 

Wiping sweat, fingers running through growing hair from the undercut to resemble something from a buried past, an odd feeling of feeling right in the eyes of his maker.

He can think a bit clearer now.

* * *

“ _Huh, Yuri._ ”

Familiarity; turned to hostility, the voice was of mockery, berating, struggling against his strains to try to tear that smug face off.

Screams, sirens of multiple branches, machines yet it was all forgotten to replace that _voice_ , the lines that stood so loudly snd clearly in a distorted memory.

Blood loss; dizziness, paleness, coldness—his mind ran that info anatomically. Weakened body felt out of focus, he should take weeks, if not months of recovery.

No time for this, heavy breaths sounded beneath the oxygen mask not out of tiredness, every single emotion that was suppose to be pained was erased in exchange of something else.

Waking up on the regular sound of an elevator tink, to the screams of a massacre. Eyes seeing the body crawling with a blood trail until it dropped, another clutching what is intact of their stomach, only line of defence of security _dead_.

Hands of ink stained with blood of his own, pushing himself up to stand despite the non stop bleeding, only to fall again—but in front of a tool, a way to stop this from going on, stop the screaming.

Bleeding crosses crossed his eyes, almost if the symbolism of them was surging something into him, to act, not leaving him behind, helping him to stand up for the fourth time.

Reaching out with trembling hand and blurred vision, he gripped the gun with all he got, standing up swaying, unsteadily aiming at the barely visible shadows at the escalators.

Aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot.

 _Aim_ and _shoot_.

Yuri _couldn’t_.

Finally giving out on the borrowed adrenaline, his legs collapsed despite all the effort to grip the nearest surface; violent coughs with iron right on his tongue until he couldn’t stay awake at all.

Ears were spared the screaming in the silence of the aftermath, bodies becoming cold around him, colder than anything he felt, laying in a field of death, not inevitable.

Then it returned.

Taken as a civilian, a victim of the event despite being the reason of this, into the ambulance to the hospital, to hear the unstopping sounds of agony. Pleads for mercy for the pain to go away, fear of dying, meeting the end so sudden and so soon for all of them.

People realising their lives can be ended on a whim.

Forced to see and hear everything around, forced to hear the insufficient supplies, not enough rooms or hands—assistance for the victims, where hopelessness of the deceased must be discarded for who have the breath. 

Wild grey eyes looked erratically at the monstrous scene; a work of five specific men he knew everything about, all by a single man. 

What went wrong, from his used-to-be friend descending into utter madness, planning out to attack his own country, fire up the memorial airport of his mentor with high guns on everyone with no exception all for nothing, to his intel failing to either reach, or ignored.

Yuri was a soldier before anything, he only defended against what was a threat, someone capable of harm, someone who had something to deserve it; who knew the risks and consequences to rightfully face them.

People who were not civilians, not a child, not an innocent.

Yuri was a soldier who vowed to protect whom he just failed, failed in front of himself even when given multiple chances, failed in front of god even when forgiven so many times, this can’t be forgiven.

No time for this, no time for self wallow, no time for optional recovery; Yuri knows that Russia will scream in a justified outrage that is made to look like it was done by the Americans. Where chaos ensued all around, people crying and demanding blood to spilled in return for the still warm dead bodies.

For the first time; as he got knocked unconscious to be kidnapped by two people who he hired from low lives and shoved into the trunk of a car like a helpless thing.

To be later lifted up to be greeted by Vladimir Makarov, a walking scum on earth, talking to Yuri as if he was the madman in the garage.

As if he was the one about to slaughter an entire airport.

For once in his life; as he could only glance at the gun before the sudden light with pain combined filled lightened up his nerves, left to fall on his knees with the throbbing pain, struggling to breath and carelessly stepped over.

Without a second thought.

For once in his life; as he laid down, wanting to rip off the wires connected to him and stand up, get the weaponry he exactly requires to go against that bastard and bring him down, knowing exactly who to contact to join.

Right _back_ to the battlefield with raw fingers and against his own.

For once in his _fucking_ life; as Yuri pointed the gun to the recited figure of him with shaking hands and failing, where eyes burned Makarov’s face into his memory till his death to hunt him down till the end of the world to make him pay painfully.

The bloodied crosses will not falter.

For once he felt something manifest faster than hellfire, and Yuri embraced it with no hesitation. Something that he let fuel his reason and heart, something he was willing to die showing for everyone to see.

 _Seething hatred_.

* * *

“ _Yuri! Yuri._ ”

Unfortunately, familiar; urgent, barely heard without the usage of a radio among updates from the other forces of their area.

Assigned high Commander, running with a loud voice and fast hand signs, soldiers moving on his orders. Advance, retreat and reposition on his mark.

So it was rightful to hold a grudge at being told to follow without question the disavowed team, but Nikolai was a good friend of his, letting him join forces even with his incomplete state of body and mind.

It won’t stop him from complaining in his mother language, restricted for Nikolai to understand at being tossed around like this, bruising something— _a lot_ of things. But the team’s goal was to hunt Makarov down.

How can Yuri refuse such a lovely offer.

Nikolai however, took his turn in complaining about Yuri’s not so gentle injection, he was not a medic.

Among the dirt and the scratches, not unbothered but strange from the state of highness he used to be in. It was not a bad thing, the feeling of leather and scratches rather humbled him back into his origins.

After checking that his lungs didn’t drown, he was properly introduced to the two members, the older one was John Price, who commanded him. And the one who was a damsel in distress was John MacTavish, codenamed Soap, interesting codename.

Whatever reason they were disavowed for, it was none of his business as much as it is none of their business to know his history, they were set on one thing and focus on it.

The focus part deemed to be a bit weird to him, as Yuri spent time with the critically injured member whenever he wasn’t out in action; _again_ , being commanded.

This particular command was intriguing in a way, conversations between the two took place, steering from professionalism, to casualty, to a bit personally.

Finding a weird company where he wasn’t suppose to find. It wasn’t a distraction, but Yuri wouldn’t have minded much if it was.

What was foolish of him was to forget, forgetting that there were parts of him yet to heal from the past, a quiet moment of Soap resting his head near Yuri’s, to a disturbed one when Yuri’s body recoiled violently at the touch of his neck.

Soap stared at him in dazed confusion, ice eyes taken back at the reaction, after what seemed to be a friendly moment. He was still highly dazed from the painkillers, to being startled awake.

Even the chair legs scraped the floor loudly at the sudden movement, feeling both awful at himself for retaining that memory, and for Soap who thought he might have done a wrong move.

Awakened from pain, medicine or general sleeplessness; Soap was once tired enough to let sleep come to him, and Yuri pushed that away.

Fuck.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Yuri tried to diffuse any concerns as much as possible, “it just—reminded me of something...unpleasant.” Not wanting to get much into it, giving enough explanation to the dazed man.

Taking time to comprehend until a hazy nod was given. Bandages around his chest, shoulder and back looked painful, cleaner than when he first saw the man; at least Soap was still alive and possibly could be back in action.

Thoughts wondered if Soap’s dog tags engraved with the letters _RC_ were accurate.

“Drop the formalities already, me and the old man are fugitives.” Deep accent heavier with tiredness, with the amount of sedation and injections into him; it was a surprise Soap was still able to stand, and interact.

Readjusting the chair again near the bed, grey eyes took notice of Soap’s face—as he was assigned to do either way, smaller wounds closed, settling that the face had two scars only where hair doesn’t grow back anymore.

From his own view, deep voice with an odd gentle tone, brightest eye colour and perhaps the softest expressions Yuri could ever seen on someone even with the sharp features, perhaps a loop sided smile.

A good sight for the sore eyes, he can admit that.

“I get it though, I can respect that; can I lean on your chest instead?”

“Huh?” Yuri was taken back, less harshly this time. He was getting old, but not _that_ old.

“Those pillows are as useful as...something useless alright? They don’t help much with the headaches, I already got Price on my ass.” Statement accompanied with a soft laugh, a rare thing to hear.

While Yuri had no knowledge and didn’t poke, the info he was filled with had shown that the team suffered close losses, explaining the mix of melancholic and enraged state of Soap from time to time, undeserving weight.

“It’s not an issue, go ahead.” Honestly, it wasn’t, he wasn’t a stranger to Yuri, being another source of outlet in this.

So here they are, sitting nearby keeping Soap company, letting the head land gently on Yuri’s chest, away from the danger zone.

Careful breathing so stitches wouldn’t rip were evident from Soap’s back movements, stress seems to dissolve off whenever they were this close.

Yuri dismissed the warmth he felt as the hot weather of India, the sun on his neck, not much. He kept his body standing up as to not cause any bothers to Soap.

Whether it be the unfamiliar close contact that made his heart beat faster, or the underlying fear of a dark secret; Soap did not comment on said change, maybe smiling a bit if Yuri’s feeling was right.

Dark emotions sept in the sweet moment, of how much it’ll take until knowledge is no longer dismissed as a lucky shot or coincidence, but for now, he was an ex-spetsnaz with unimaginable hate for Makarov.

Was he a traitor to the team, just like how he a betrayer to his old friend?

Hesitant movement, a leap of faith, Yuri put a gentle hand on a scarred neck.

Soap didn’t move or flinch, maybe if was his imagination, but maybe the head moved closer into the shared warmth.

Having the full courage, inked fingers made soothing gestures that felt rusty, he had not moved them for a purpose other than violence in a very long time.

Perhaps he did actually. In a past life.

* * *

“ _Yuri...?_ ”

Close; very soft and intimate to him, despite it almost being a whisper of question that could be ignored, it instantly halted his movements.

With the discarded clothes ready between his arms, already closed his heart to it after long arguments of his mind, Yuri was prepared to leave now, after each had taken what they want.

It’s a lie on his side, he had hoped for much more.

Athletic body stood in hesitance. Only thing that resembled something covering his skin was the bandages wrapped around his stomach, leaving all of his body bare of clothes, and emotional walls.

Sweat still had a hint on him, feeling the familiar fever of his body with the religiously worn locked very cold against it, slight shake in his legs from the lingering effect of his and John’s recent... _activities_.

Head turning around to the voice that called out his name, where John slightly sat up on his elbows—as much as his wounds allowed him—on the bed. Only source of light was the uneven stripes that managed to sneak in from the window.

Tonight, he was handling a different conflict. Not the one he expected, where the accented blue light showed a slightly messy mohawk, eyes that looked in confusion and maybe even hurt, had beauty that Yuri did not deny.

Yuri couldn’t help but be drawn to how the light spread on John’s figure; skin showing a bit redder parts, the chest hair with so much scars that Yuri have lost count until it was mostly hidden by bandages.

Working state but not to a completion, Where John had made sure that it would not open at a too aggressive movement. Despite it, the bandages remained just in case.

An evening hangout on the rooftops, a shared sneakily stolen bottle and some willingness to be open, John had invited Yuri to some alone time during the night.

 _Personal_ , different kind of alone time.

Not unfamiliar, even with a man it was no different then the usual nights he had spent with someone, they often had a need and helped each other and parted ways, and even with how close it was, Yuri thought this should go the same.

Even if it hurt getting up from the strange warmth.

Looking at John, despite logically it shouldn’t; he had expected the same from him, just a spark of interest amidst a messy situation. Distraction from everything around just for a little while to keep moving on, but logic beats uncertainty as eyes locked.

Ice eyes turned from confused to almost sympathetic, strangely endearing, where even in the most heated desire John had asked about the limits of his neck; had kissed the stomach bandages, not knowing nor asking.

“Come here, Yuri...” With an even softer tone, John said as he raised a scarred arm, extending, inviting for the afterthought.

An old part of Yuri knew that he should reject it quietly and go on with his day, they were both professionals who knew how to separate work from pleasure and it won’t cause any further problems. He did it more than once and it shouldn’t be any different.

Too many complications and connections in parts of Yuri that he himself didn’t even reconnect properly.

Instead, arms loosened to drop the clothes back on the ground, complying with sombreness as legs moved again; responding not with reason, not with statistics, but with something that he just couldn’t kill.

_Comfort._

Face turned from sympathetic to mixed with relief, a hint of a soft smile as an inked arm accepted John’s hand, guiding him right back in with a quick kiss. Returning to the warmth once again but more tightly as John hugged him from behind.

No questions, scarred arms hugged the figure tightly to his chest, where both of them fit in together for the second time today but less hesitation from Yuri.

The act itself was not different but the state of him was, not afraid, not tired with putting up so much barriers to the point he felt nothing, knowing that John wouldn’t do harm to him; being treated as a human with feelings that used to feel so distant.

One hand came up to hold the head on his shoulder, fingers feeling the messiness and stubble that ran, gently letting it press more on his neck, the sight of the crosses felt right on John’s face.

Dreams could never reach the amount of tenderness he was exposed to, the other hand holding the arm on his chest, they stayed like this for a long time silently until he felt the chest behind his back breath slowly, indicating that John fell asleep, something he deserves.

Reconnection to the past was a big process that needed time, but for the main part he had to reconnect to the thin string of humanity to work, to defy what he sees against in a war led by madness.

But he didn’t expect to stumble upon that part of him, the part that he used to be before everything went downhill to tragic.

Used to be vulnerable.

Content, warm and safe were things he forgot, remembering them from the arms that held him so dearly. Hard concrete and cold pain; that is what his skin expected from any touch anywhere, removing any feelings in order to not feel those.

Last time Yuri felt something not harsh was so long ago, grey eyes blinked as he felt them watering, not out of pain, not out of happiness, not out of sadness or any specific emotion.

Simply out of feeling.

He hadn’t felt like this since a lot. With a shaky breath and closed eyes, he recomposed himself but not denying anything, letting the softness of the moment remain.

In the morning John is gonna be there, and Yuri will stay so.

Maybe there is still some hope to his hopelessness.

* * *

“ _Here, Yuri._ ”

Familiar and close; neutral tone that was soft in nature despite any situation, accompanied with a normal request.

Africa was worse, if Yuri had complained about India, than he was sorely mistaken about the temperature. Even the night itself was extreme and humid, the bugs sure loved the smallest of light around the conveniently hidden camp. 

Brightness of a new day peeked as they set up the equipment, showing more and more of the deep and deep forest. Sounds of crickets and various living things were around them, unlike against Makarov’s army; there was no need to be afraid of higher technology, where they could stay low with no high alerts.

Resources from many hidden affiliations with the disavowed team, guns limited but very good for their needed trip. Outfits swapped from improvised and different to camouflage and matches, the team is _actually_ fully functional.

Yuri does tend to hold grudges.

Which can be quickly resolved upon welcoming offers, walking towards the offered seat that John scooted a bit to provide some space on the look out.

Grass being moved mixing in with the crickets, Yuri sat on the offered spot, arms setting up the weapon up and the beloved desert eagle in its holster, _not yet_.

Biggest of wars still need the hidden support of dragged countries, richest of resources are made by the poorest of hands, Yuri knows that from past experience of both lives.

Predictions were information that had the chance of being false; his words did not. 

Knowing Makarov’s favourite methods of routes and handmade weaponry, from the farthest point of country, to the exact precision of the factory’s street, it gave him a fucked up sense of pride knowing all of this.

The same exact feeling he felt when he dissembled his own army’s tactics.

Going against the empire he built for twenty years felt ironic, considering he was not in it, but a lead of it, but it was the cause of his melancholy and doubts as well, feeling unease with the actions of rogues gone mad.

Actions that he did not belong in, no matter what he became, it was not emotionless, not a weapon for anyone to use, not a heart to be played with.

Loud sigh at the boredom of the environment, only a twitch at a movement of a creature, Yuri kept his eyes on the area with practiced high alert, finger resting at the trigger.

Taking a moment off, grey eyes looked at the man next to him, equally alert and on guard in this position with full attire, finally back in combat and it seemed to give him life.

Right back into the fight, John had shrugged off any rustiness of performance and went fully in with emotions out loud, admirable.

Eyes met for a brief second, ice ones looking at him blank focus from the rifle, till they went gentle at him with the slightest of hint of a smile. One that was rightfully returned.

Men like John had something for them afterwards waiting, family, friends or living in peace after so much, even if he didn’t believe in those who suffer the most gets the best, but mercy is something that even Yuri was given.

A brief nod before both went back almost in sync, but Yuri can’t lie and say it didn’t make him feel lighter about the entire thing.

Like a checklist, not having barriers, not having guilt over his sexuality, not feeling wrong about what he does, Yuri had went over them from the years, least expected was to think about a lover, someone to be with.

Least he expected was to find someone to mean everything in a war just right after he lost everything metaphorically and literally, trying to not think of the untold secret in idealism.

Despite the illogical thinking, Yuri believes once this is over—which he will do if it took him all years—that there should be plans for the aftermath.

Perhaps there was a future for people like him, perhaps he wasn’t such a lost cause.


End file.
